Acquiescence
by Juniper Laurel
Summary: Fast little one-shot on Austria bending his rules for a little pasta-loving country in a maid costume.


**This is most likely going to be my only fanfic for Hetalia, and chances are that it's going to be a oneshot in an attempt to head off my procrastinating tendencies, but I happened across some of these videos on YouTube and just thought I would blend something out of it. It's going to be rather fast-paced. That's how I tend to write.**

**Absolutely nothing at all related to this fanfiction belongs to me.**

**Okay I'll shut up now.**

* * *

Chibitalia.

Little Italy woke up late one morning and looked at the clock. "Oh no, I'm late. Mr. Austria's going to be so mad. I have to be extra good for him otherwise I won't get pasta." He peered around. Apron, apron, where was his apron? And his push broom. He found the apron on the floor where he had discarded it the previous night, with a few wrinkles that he tried to pat smooth with limited success. The push broom hid until his frantic scampering all over the room led him to trip over the handle sticking out from under his bed and fall flat on his face. "Oh, that's where you are, you silly broom. That hurt. Don't hide from me again." He looked up at the clock again. "Look now, you've made me late. That's less pasta for both of us. Run!" And he tottered as fast as his feet could carry him down the hall and toward the piano room, where anyone would know they could find Austria.

"Don't run so fast. You're going to destroy something if you run into it," the Austrian greeted his maid, not even needing to pause in his piano playing to classify the footsteps that announced Chibitalia's arrival. "Ms. Hungary is waiting for you in the kitchen."

"Yes Mr. Austria," the child chirped, setting off toward Ms. Hungary at a pace only fractionally slower than the earlier one. Austria sighed.

...

"When was the last time Mr. Austria gave you a break?" Hungary asked her young charge, watching him swaying on his tiptoes even boosted by a stool, scrubbing the dishes that were invisible for all the foam. Little Italy had improved in his dishwashing, only breaking up to three a day compared to when Austria and Hungary had first taken the child in. Both of them still remembered how the workload had only increased with the arrival of Chibitalia. He had washed dishes so fast (or tried to) that Ms. Hungary could hardly keep up with the broom, sweeping up the breakages.

"If I get break I don't get pasta," mumbled the brown-haired baby Italy. A floating bubble landed on his hair-curl and stuck for a few seconds before popping.

"That Austria," Hungary breathed, gaze magnetizing toward her recently polished frying pan, "Poor Italy, I'll talk to him for you. Until then just hang on. I'm sure I can get you a pasta-filled vacation for free."

"Really Ms. Hungary? Thank you!" Chibitalia turned, sponge in hand, to beam at his "older sister." Just then his foot slipped and she tumbled forward instead. Hungary's eyes widened, but she was on the other side of the room.

"CRASH!"

"Are you okay? Italy!" (Hungary)

"What happened here?!" (Austria)

"Owie..." (Italy)

Austria hovered at the side as Hungary picked up the spilled Chibitalia and put him on the counter, there not being anywhere else to lay him down other than the floor. Little Italy sat there, face red, nose redder from the impact, and tears dripping down the side of his face as Ms. Hungary ran a handkerchief dipped in warm water over his upper lip, catching the blood before it could trickle down. The violet-eyed man watching over the situation put on his impassive mask as soon as he saw the situation was under control.

"Does this mean no pasta?" Italy whimpered pitifully, new tears gathering and threatening to spill over at the edges of his oversized brown eyes.

"Of course not," Hungary soothed, "Of course you'll get pasta, isn't that right, Mr. Austria?" She glared daggers at the Austrian, who winced. "You're very brave, little Italy. Tilt your head back now, and I'll get you some ice."

...

Later that day, the trio had just finished lunch and Chibitalia had the instruction to dust the most important object in the house: Mr. Austria's piano. "Must be careful," he told himself, "so Mr. Austria will not be mad."

When Austria came back to check on his maid, though, all he saw was his piano half clean and the dusty rag lying on the floor next to a sleeping little Italy. "Are you slacking off again, Italy? I only went easy on you because Ms. Hungary was there earlier, you know." He strode over, bent down, and froze. Chibitalia's stubby limbs were folded awkwardly underneath his petit form, a sign that he hadn't consciously chosen to lie down when he did. He was also panting shallowly, cheeks flushed, and a few beads of sweat had accumulated on his forehead. Wordlessly, Austria placed one hand on his maid's shoulder and spread the child out on the floor like a starfish. Even without touching little Italy's forehead he could feel the heat emanating from the body in waves.

"Mm, pasta," the young Italian murmured, eyes firmly shut, "Have to... work. No... break... Mister... Austria."

Realization hit. "Oh Italy," Austria said, stricken, "You should have said something. Ow!" Sudden pain erupted on the back of his head. Familiar pain.

"He did," Hungary informed her former husband, "To me. And to think I had come over to talk to you about giving poor Ita-chan a break, too." She loomed over the Austrian man, frying pan in hand clearly illustrating the threat. "Imagine, a pompous fool like you driving a mere child to collapse from overwork. That's not the Austria I used to have an alliance with."

"Forget it," Austria gritted his teeth, a rare show of stress.

"Excuse me?" The frying pan tapped against its wielder's opposite palm. Menacing.

"I mean," he hastened to add, "forget about anything I might have or might not have said before. Italy gets a break, as well as the pasta she's so in love with, but only after you do something for me."

"Better be fast," she arched an eyebrow.

"Nurse our Italy to full health. Then we can all take a break."

Hungary's anger evaporated, along with the frying pan, by some nullification of the laws of physics, and she hugged the Austrian briefly before scooping the still unconscious child up and rushing off to put him to bed.

Austria was left alone with the unfinished task of dusting the piano, staring after the two. Eventually he picked up the rag, wry smile offset by a faint blush. "We could use a break sometime." He contemplated how easily his rules bent when it came to those they applied to.

Meanwhile, Prussia, who had been just outside the whole time, decided that invading the Austrian household could wait, for a short while. He walked away.

* * *

**I can't even come up with a comment right now, after reading this over three times. I'm sorry if anyone is OOC. I rarely watch animes like this. R&R.**


End file.
